


Who Is Dead

by ceywoozle



Series: In War [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Violence, Missing Scene, nonconsensual drugging, resolution anyway, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks before Christmas, Sherlock is back from the hospital and John is there to take care of him. John is always there to take care of him. What Sherlock forgets sometimes is that occasionally, John needs to be taken care of, too.</p><p>Companion piece of Who Is Left. Same story, different perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Two weeks before Christmas, Sherlock comes home.

He walks up the steps, each groove familiar. His feet slot into them without thought. _When did this happen?_ he thinks.

Behind him, John is silent. Sherlock wouldn't know he was there at all save for the faint scent he always carries, of Baker Street and the clinic. Sherlock pauses at the landing to catch his breath, his body having forgotten this— _stairs_ —only to find a hand, finger tips pressed into his back. Familiar, but their feel on him new. He catalogues them as he stands there, waiting longer than he needs to before starting again, the hand falling away the moment he does.

The smell of hospital that clings to him almost overrides everything, stifling and acrid, chemical and slightly nauseating. It clogs up his throat, his nose. But even so, he can smell Baker Street, Laundry detergent and tea and soap and the faintest underlying chemical scent of experiments and hallways. The faint scent of worn leather and the sofa warming in the sun. It is familiar, comforting. _Home,_ he thinks again, and wonders if this smell is perhaps what he'd meant all along.

He reaches the first floor and he knows when John pauses behind him. Let's him go ahead. An odd conceit that Sherlock puzzles over. He steps through into the sitting room and stops, looking around, trying to find what it is that bothers him suddenly. With that single step. Stepping into home and yet stepping away from it, too. He inspects sofa cushions and the creases in his leather chair, the placement of the skull on the mantlepiece, the darker line of the wood around the nearest edge of the rug where Mrs Hudson had vacuumed and allowed it to shift. Familiar. Everything. But changed. He feels cold suddenly and doesn't understand why.

He remembers John, abruptly, still standing in the hall, and as soon as he does he realises.

Standing in the flat with the afternoon filtering in, he no longer smells Baker Street. The smell of home patently missing from where he lives. He realises, with an odd sort of shock, that it was John Watson he had been smelling all along.

John Watson, of whom the flat no longer smells.

It is the moment he realises that John hasn't been here in weeks. It is also the moment that he realises that perhaps John doesn't want to be here.

He turns to catch him in the corner of his eye. John is watching him, not moving from where he stands, and a sudden unreasoning panic rises in Sherlock, to keep him here, to make him stay. “Tea?” he asks without fully turning around, in case something shows on his face, some dawning edge of the realisation that he's come to.

John huffs. Takes a step— _Don't go—_ Inwards. To the kitchen. To the sink, where the tap squeaks as it's turned on and the top of the kettle clicks open. Too far to smell still so that the sitting room continues to smell like vacuum cleaner and furniture polish and Mrs Hudson, of slightly stale air and the faint musk of rags not properly hung to dry. He moves around it, trying to find some whiff of the familiar, but it's all in the other room with John, adding to the smell of tea that is beginning to penetrate clearly past the confines of the kitchen. Earl Grey. Familiar. _Home._ He moves towards it, towards John. Stops at the divide where sitting room turns into kitchen and already he can smell it, above the vacuum, above the musk, above the acrid hospital clinging to his own skin, he smells John. He smells Baker Street. Bent forward over the edge of the sink and clutching at its edge. _Home._ Breathing deeply as the water rushes loudly, covering the smaller sounds around it. _John._

“John?” and he hears himself the odd breathlessness of the syllable.

John looks up, an abrupt movement that makes Sherlock wonder what he'd been thinking of. He watches the shoulders straighten, the white fingers slowly releasing their stranglehold on the worktop.

“Yeah.” The word distant, tight.

Sherlock doesn't answer, watches him pour the water. The track of muscles moving under too many layers. Sherlock watches them and wonders about them, not for the first time, not since the wedding when it had finally occurred to him what he had lost that day. He thinks of muscles sliding under skin, holding everything together, tense and tight and hard under searching fingers.

He had touched himself that night, alone in the flat, the wedding behind him. For the first time in years. Touched himself and made himself come, for the first time letting him say John's name in the way he'd always been meant to say it. Too late. He was an idiot. Such an idiot.

He thinks of the month afterwards, the churning doubt like something physical as he'd wondered how he had let this happen, how _John_ had let this happen. John was supposed to be the one who was good at these things. Why hadn't John said anything? Done something? He remembers the anger, the frustration, when touching himself was no longer enough and he had found his last needle and settled it against the heat of his skin with the vindictive thought that if only John could see him now. If only John could see the ruin he'd created of their relationship. John. Fucking John.

The plunger had gone down almost too easily. Too easy.

“You going to shower? I want you in bed.”

John's voice. Present. Here. His.

Sherlock blinks, looks at him. Sees the coil of muscles, the cloud of heavily veiled eyes. John stares back as if he's trying to decipher him and Sherlock wants to let him. Wants to know what's taken him so long. He smiles, thinking of John in his bed. Of John wanting him in bed. He gives a quirk to his eyebrow, an invitation only half in jest and he sees John blush, heat rising to swamp his face. Those clouded eyes flickering away.

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Sherlock says, aware of how much his voice is slurring. He's flirting. He can't believe he's flirting.

“Git,” John says and the word is infused with tension even as he can hear the forced levity behind it. John trying to remember who they are. Where they are. Both useless exercises because Sherlock knows how long John's wanted him. Knows to the day. To the hour. The first lick of lips all those years ago. The first time Sherlock had turned away and told him, _I'm married to my work._ A terrible day. A wonderful day. Sherlock thinks of it and wonders how to bring them back to that moment. If it's even possible.

“Shower?” John presses again, clearly trying to move past this. Not knowing this is exactly where Sherlock wants to be.

But it's too late. Too far. He nods and John turns away. The liquid sound of milk in tea and then a cup being pressed against his palms.

“I'll run the tap,” John says, and leaves him there.


	2. Two

John goes to the bathroom. The sound of the light switch— _click_ —the shrill metallic protest of the ancient taps— _screee—_ ending on a high note and then the rush of water. The break and splatter as a hand is dipped into its stream. Sherlock counts the seconds as he always does—o _ne-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen—_ and then the deep plunging sound that the ancient plumbing makes as the knob is pulled and the water is diverted to the shower head. The flat is filled with the sound of rain on a window. Contained.

Sherlock puts the tea down. Doesn't really want it. He takes the four steps to the bathroom door and stops. Watches. John reaching upwards to drag the plastic curtain across the rod. Containing. Keeping everything neat and close, all in one place. Carefully controlled and kept an eye on. The water exactly where its meant to be.

For a moment, less time than it takes for Sherlock's heart to turn over in his chest, John turns around, and in that briefest of moments his face is completely naked. Almost unprecedented in John Watson. In some ways so transparent and in others so guarded. Sherlock sees exhaustion. He sees grief. Fear. But more than that, he sees despair, and in the way John's mouth turns down at the right corner, the muscle bunched and tense, his nostrils slightly flared, Sherlock sees self-loathing.

Less than a heartbeat.

Then John sees him and he jumps, biting out a curse and calling him names, as John always does when Sherlock does something he doesn't expect. The name more than usually apt now.

“Jesus bloody Christ, you wanker!”

Sherlock can't help it. He quirks a brow because yes, yes he is a wanker in the strictest definition of the term. He sees the sudden anger on John's face, the sudden shut down.

“Water's warm,” John snaps at him, all the emotion from earlier tucked safely behind his rage. He stalks towards the door. To leave, but Sherlock doesn't move. Wonders what John will do. If he'll move him forcibly away, if he'll stop in front of him and simply wait. If he'll hit him.

He does none of those things. Hesitates mid-step and veers sharply towards the other door, into Sherlock's room. Sherlock watches him go. Watches the door slam shut behind him. The reflection of the light shivering across the rattled glass. He feels oddly triumphant when John doesn't reappear a moment later in the hallway and for the briefest inhalation considers going after him, to the bedroom, to the darkness that seems to have swallowed him up. But he doesn't. Steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

It's filling up with steam now, with the exits all blocked. The rush of water against the porcelain, against the plastic curtain, filling the tiny space. It's almost comforting in a way. Home. John. He strips off his clothing, one piece at a time and feels the breaths he hadn't known he'd been holding slowly slip out with each discarded article. When he's naked, his clothes in a heap on the floor, he kicks them into the corner. Hard. Almost viciously. Like something ugly intruding. The hospital goes with them, the chemicals and the cleaning products, industrial and sickening. All that's left is what's on his skin, on his hair, under his nails, on the thin conjunctiva of his eye. He steps into the shower and the water, just on the border of too hot, makes him open his mouth in a long gasp. He feels the water run into the corners of his mouth and doesn't try to stop it till he needs to breathe again.

He washes, scrubbing himself with the bar of rough soap. John's. He wonders how it got here. His mind cycles through theories of John sneaking in to deposit various items of his possession around the flat, like a dog leaving its scent, but he knows it's ridiculous. It was probably Mrs Hudson. Not knowing any better. Though how she could imagine that he'd use this rubbish when a full bottle of his own expensive body wash sits right there beside his shampoo is bewildering. He muses on it, almost annoyed, as he scrubs himself clean, and when the bar slips out of his fingers he stares at it, sliding about under the spray, and wonders what he's doing.

He almost reaches for the body wash, but he needs to pick up John's soap. He could step on it. Imagines it. The arch of his foot landing squarely, his balance spinning away, his muscles tearing at the wound in his chest as his arms whirlwind for relief. He imagines bleeding again. John running in, eyes wide with panic, lips tight and nostrils flared. His soldier face, coming to defend. Then his doctor face, coming to save. It's a tempting fantasy, but also an absurd one. It's considerably more likely he would fall and hit his head on the metal tap, bleed out on the porcelain, losing John again. Or no. That's not right. John losing him again. But he'd promised. He'd promised himself. And John. Though not out loud, of course.

So he bends, feeling the wound stretch on his chest anyway. He picks up the bar of John's soap and absently, thinking of John's face trying to save him, he starts to wash himself again. When he's done, he puts the bar back in its dish and reaches for the shampoo. His shampoo, of course. No point in being sentimental. And anyway, Mrs Hudson's dubious brand of thoughtfulness hadn't extended to John's shampoo.

He rinses quickly, meaning to get out. He's starting to feel the ache in his chest. Not strong, but there. He hasn't used pain killers for three days now, hasn't needed them really. He'd taken them a few days longer than necessary, relishing the way the edges started to sway, the way John had looked so soft. He'd almost missed the pursed lips and the veiled lids when John had mumbled something about coffee before leaving the room, not coming back till a day later saying something about an extra shift. Sherlock hadn't taken them since, knowing, remembering the slide of the needle in his skin, that he'd only done it to bring John back in the first place.

John.

On the other side of the door. Sherlock wonders if he's still in the bedroom or if he's gone to the kitchen.

He pictures the tired blue eyes finding the untouched tea on the counter, rolling his eyes and dumping it out, the momentary debate of whether or not he should put the kettle on again. Will he go to the sofa, turn on the telly? Sherlock stands under the shower and tries to listen for the telltale sound but he hears nothing.

Reading then, perhaps. His body finding the familiar curves of the well worn chair. Perhaps taking a book from the shelf. Perhaps the newspaper. No, that's not right. They wouldn't have been getting the newspaper.

A book then. Something relaxing. Mindless. One of the few dozen novels he'd left behind that neither Sherlock nor Mrs Hudson had ever gotten around to tossing or appropriating. A murder mystery probably. Something lewd and ridiculous where the killer is the last person you'd expect and therefore the first. He imagines John sitting there, engulfed in his chair with his eyes on his book but still concentrating on the sound of Sherlock in the shower, waiting for a call, for a sound out of the ordinary, doctor and soldier and assistant. As John always is. Like a satellite homing in on a signal. Sherlock can almost feel his attention from here.

Which is ridiculous, of course. It doesn't work that way.

He turns off the water. His grip on the faucet feels loose and he has to concentrate to work up the energy to twist it all the way closed till it stops dripping. He pushes the curtain aside, reaches for his towel, scrubs himself dry and feels the terrycloth rasping against the hair on his face. _Shave,_ he thinks, an item on a list. He's tired, though. Considers waiting till tomorrow, but it's part of the hospital, that half-beard. A reminder of being somewhere else. He wraps the towel around his waist and goes to the mirror where he wipes off the fog with the side of his hand and stares at himself. At the edge of a white scar wrapping around his shoulder. The pale waste of unused muscle. Already, the decay of the body setting in. He wonders at it, for the first time suddenly concerned that perhaps it won't be good enough. _Good enough for what?_ he scoffs in his own head. Knows the answer before the thought is finished. _John._ Ignores it. Reaches for his razor and knows he's being stupid when he sees it shaking. He's tired. Wonders if he can blame this on John, too.

He smooths the shaving cream on, watching his face turn white in the mirror. His skin looks grey beside it. He brings the razor up and watches it vibrate an uncertain swath through the foam and is unsurprised by the sudden bite of steel and the inevitable bloom of blood, but he still swears, dropping the heavy razor almost on his foot, then jumping again when the door to the bedroom swings open and John is standing there, wide-eyed with alarm, the soldier on his face. Or maybe the doctor. Sherlock can't always tell them apart.

“Shit,” John says, a look on his face as if he has no idea how he came to be there. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says shortly. “Just a shaving cut.”

John doesn't say anything. He's still staring, his face bleached out in the revealing brightness of the bathroom's faintly buzzing bulb. His eyes are very blue in this light, distracting Sherlock from the deep creases that age and grief have left dragging in their wakes.

“John,” Sherlock says again, because John hasn't moved. He's still standing there, staring, his gaze fixated somewhere below Sherlock's eyes. _His neck? His chest?_ It wouldn't be the first time. Sherlock's gotten used to this staring from John. He wonders if John's suddenly overcome with lust, seeing his half-naked form. Or perhaps horror, at the pale waste of muscle. But no, he knows that look, the rising dawn of want in John Watson's eloquent face. This is not that. This is terror. This is the look he had seen when he had lain unmoving at the foot of St Bart's, pretending to be dead. The same look as when Sherlock had been dragged off to hospital, bleeding out from the inside. It was the terror of betrayal, of having betrayed. The terror of grief and of grieving.

And Sherlock sees it again, the naked strain of despair.

_“John!”_

And like that John blinks and it's gone. The grief and the grieving, the betrayal and the betrayed. Despair washed clean with the awareness again of the attention settled on him. Closing up. Contained and crushed into something small enough to hide.

“Yeah,” John says, as if trying to remember where he is. “Sorry. I. Thought you needed help.”

Sherlock looks at him. Really. Looks. He is trying to find where the seams are. The edges of John Watson's facade that he's managed to miss for so long. Emotion hidden under more emotion. Who would have thought John Watson could be so devious?

But the dark blue eyes flicker away. Slip downwards and Sherlock's gaze follows, finding the razor on the floor where he'd dropped it and finding himself suddenly irritated at this interruption. That John should be privy to this uncalled for weakness.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Tired,” and goes to bend over, annoyed even more because he needs to hold onto the side of the basin to support himself, and far too quickly John is there, his hand snatching the razor from the floor.

“Your hand's shaking,” says John the doctor, utterly reasonable.

“Just tired, John.”

“It can wait till tomorrow,” the doctor insists.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Sherlock extends his hand for the razor. John doesn't give it to him.

“I'll do it.”

 _What?_ Sherlock feels like his brain has stopped working. He knows he didn't imagine it, though. He wouldn't imagine something like that. He looks closely at John and can see the panic start to edge in.

“Fine,” he says quickly, before John can take it back, and turns his back to the mirror, slouching down a bit so that John can't use his tallness as an excuse to change his mind. He still sees the hesitation, though, the unavoidable regret, and so he makes himself droop a bit, letting the lines of his face shift downwards, looking as exhausted as he can. He realises with an inwards grimace that it doesn't take very much.

He's aware of John, standing there, the razor upright in his left hand. _Take the step, John,_ Sherlock begs. _I need to get you there eventually._

And maybe John hears him. Or maybe it's just the exhaustion in both of them. John nods. Swallows.

“Yeah, alright.”


	3. Three

It is unsteady, that first stroke. He can feel it wobbling over his throat and Sherlock wonders if perhaps this wasn't a mistake after all. He squeezes his eyes shut, mentally preparing for the next bite of steel, the sting of separating skin. But John pauses and Sherlock can hear him take a breath. When the blade returns a moment later it is steady, the line it makes along Sherlock's neck clean.

It's relaxing, as shaving always is when someone else does it. Like getting a hair cut or when John has a bubble bath and Sherlock can feel the tension in the flat winding downwards, the smell of burning wicks and candle smoke, the sweetness of vanilla or lavender pervading the flat until even Sherlock, perched in the kitchen or sprawled out in the sitting room, can feel everything start to come together.

It's been a long time since John's taken a bubble bath in 221B. It's been a long time since John's lived here. For the first time, it occurs to Sherlock to wonder where he's been staying instead. At Mary's? Unlikely. More probable that he'd been with Harry and the chances of that are next to nothing. With Mike, perhaps. A decided possibility. Would it be okay to ask? Sherlock's not entirely sure where they stand anymore. A John Watson outside of 221B seems oddly alien, two identical pieces of information that lead to entirely different conclusions. Even during his engagement John had been here, pervading the flat. Leaving his scent behind, like a cat rubbing itself against all the furniture, staking its claim and informing the other cats that _this is mine._ And when Sherlock had come back, after two years and four months, it had still seemed oddly inhabited. Something frozen outside of time, perfectly preserved. John's soap, John's shampoo, John's clothing and coats still hung on the rack as if waiting for him to come home. John's chair, John's tea, John's bed linens and pillows. It was different, coming home to that. It hadn't taken much effort for Sherlock to fool himself into thinking that John's belongings had equalled John.

Now, though, John has been eradicated. There is John himself, of course, but he is an impermanent thing compared to the signs of him. Any second he could walk away. Put down the razor and turn his back, slipping from the flat, from Sherlock's life, to wherever he's been all this time.

Sherlock opens his eyes, attempting to find something that will give John away. A smudge of dirt, a fold of clothing out of place, a bus schedule thrust into a pocket, an aching back and neck from too many nights on a lilo or sofa. But there's just John. John who is shaving Sherlock and not breathing.

“John?”

As if his name is a cue, John's mouth opens in a gasp and he inhales. A single great breath that leaves him breathless. It takes three more inhalations before John speaks and then it's only to look at Sherlock with a warning in his eyes and say, “Don't move.”

But this is getting boring. There are things to know, that Sherlock requires answers to. Considers coming out and asking where this new residence is but he realises even as he opens his mouth to speak that that's not what's actually bothering him. When John leans past him to swirl the razor in the sink, he takes his chance.

“You didn't stay here,” he says instead, and startles himself with the truth of his own motive. “While I was in hospital.”

John says nothing. Behind Sherlock, the water laps against the porcelain. He can hear it slop over onto the counter.

“John?” he presses, because he's not sure how he hasn't noticed yet how incredibly important the answer to this question is.

“No,” John says. “I didn't.”

Sherlock waits but nothing else is forthcoming and he can feel his frustration start to rise. “Why not?” he prompts, trying to keep it out of his voice.

John's answer, when it comes, is a wound. Deliberate and deep. “I don't live here,” he says, and raises the razor once more to Sherlock's face. “Almost done.”

John works quickly now and Sherlock knows it's to keep him from asking too many questions. The razor is working around his cheeks and chin, making it impossible to talk. Sherlock debates talking anyway and risking the cuts, but it's not worth it. There's always later. _Right?_

“Finished,” John says suddenly, putting the razor by the sink and taking a step back, and Sherlock is caught off guard. He raises his hands, feeling the new smoothness of his cheeks and neck. He feels normal, almost. It's a relief, something worthy of incredible gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says to John, and means it.

“Yeah, alright,” John says, his face colouring. He looks away. Looks down. The same place he'd been looking before, the same expression, of terror and grief, but fascination, too. A look he's given to mutilated corpses. Sherlock watches as he raises a hand. An action that seems almost involuntary. Inches away, the hand seems to pause and Sherlock observes with interest, wondering how this will go. He already knows where John is aiming for though John himself still seems to be wavering. And then movement again, and those finger tips brush the broken skin of the healing hole, the place the bullet went in.

“Jesus Christ,” John says, barely audible above the sudden frantic beating of Sherlock's heart as that hand presses flat, covers the hole and Sherlock can feel each finger like a brand on his skin. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock says, tries to say. It breaks in the middle and leaves him choked. He can feel it, this moment he's been trying to get back. _Boyfriend then?_ John will ask. Sherlock will answer properly this time. He hasn't been married to his work for years now. He'll tell John. _Just you._ A surprise, romantic and simple and John will smile and it will be okay. It will all be fine.

“I did this,” John says then, and for a moment Sherlock has no idea what he's talking about. And when he realises—the scar, the fucking scar—he almost starts to scream. Realises that John's touch had nothing to do with moments. This had to do with guilt. He almost throws John's hand off.

“Don't be an idiot,” he snaps instead.

“She's my wife—”

“Shut up, John.”

“Sherlock, Christ—”

And Sherlock's had enough. He can feel the bitterness roiling around in his stomach, his impatience and his frustration straining to be released in a violence of gun shots or howling, hurtful snarls that will cripple this man before him, will strip him of what little protection he's managed to build up. And Sherlock wants it, to see the seams come apart. Finally finding out where they are. But he knows that's wrong. That that's far more than just a bit not good. It would be disastrous. It would destroy everything all over again and he's already done that too many times to count. He thinks of all the missed opportunities, all the times John had tried to say something, start this conversation and Sherlock had shut it down before its first infant cry could be heard, destroying the peace he had built around himself. And finally, now, standing here with John's hand on him, the moment so close and almost past, Sherlock realises that someone needs to take this step and finally, for the first time, he knows that it's not John.

“Oh for God's sake,” he says, and before John has the chance to protest, to think, Sherlock leans forward and kisses him.

It's harder than he thought it would be. He misses a bit, too far down and to the left. But that's not the point. Or maybe it is. Sherlock's not sure. Will John's love, beaten and battered and abused, finally crumble at this sudden evidence of incompetence? Sherlock doesn't think so, but just in case, he draws back. He'll try again, start fresh. It will be better next time.

Except that John is standing there as if he's been shot. Blank shock erases everything from his face and Sherlock, looking at him, wants nothing more than to gather John to him. To smooth that look away with a careful hand. To tell him that it's okay, that it will be okay, that it's over now because they're here. They've finally reached that point. He feels something in his chest, something heavy and solid, almost physical, and it actually hurts. Sherlock gasps for breath, wonders how he's supposed to control this, how people _do_ this. He spins around, stares at himself in mirror, and finally understands the look of shock on John's face.

“Sher—”

_God, no, not now._

“I need to rinse,” he says desperately, stalling this until he learns how to breathe again. He bends over before John can see his face and starts to rinse the shaving cream and stubble from his chin and neck. The water is cool, too cool, and he almost expects to see it steaming against his skin.

John is still there. Even with his face in his hands and the rush of water in his ears Sherlock knows that John is watching him. He can feel the scrutiny, familiar now. Knows John is staring at his back, tracing his life in the scars on his back. One day he'll have to tell John all about them. It's only fair. A trade off for the stories surrounding John's own extensive tracery. But he knows that John's not ready yet, that those stories are tied up with all the rest of his secrets, and Sherlock is only now coming to understand just how many secrets John has. How many secrets _he_ has.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, answering that unasked question. He sees John's startled frown in the mirror over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says again. “Yes, I'll tell you. Not now though.” He waves a brief hand. “I'm tired.” He realises even as he says it that it's not a lie.

And just like that John-the-doctor is back. He straightens almost imperceptibly, his eyes hardening, his muscles stiffening. “Bed,” he says firmly, reaching out to take Sherlock's arm then stops abruptly and pulls back, the doctor fading into the background. “Bed.”

Sherlock turns just as John draws a hand across his face. It passes and it's as if it's managed to leave everything smudged behind it, as if John is a drawing done in charcoal and one good swipe has left him blurred.

“Your room's still free,” Sherlock tells him, and inwardly begs for John to take it.

But John shakes his head and Sherlock is ready to argue, to make him realise the folly of trying to find his way home (wherever that is) when he's this done in. And underlying it is the panic that on leaving, John might never come back.

“Sofa,” John says though, and Sherlock feels the panic disintegrate instantly. “Call if you need something, yeah?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, anything, keep him here a moment longer. _To do what?_ He doesn't know. Realises that he doesn't much care. But John's already walked away. Sherlock listens to the floorboards compressing beneath John Watson's feet as he disappears. Into the kitchen where Sherlock hears the him pause.

He knows John's going to be listening for him, so he forces himself to move, turning off the light in the bathroom and shuffling across the floor to his bed. He can feel his body starting to crumble, a sudden defeat and he's not entirely sure where it's come from. All at once, his chest starts to ache where John had branded it with his palm. He wonders if John has done something but he knows that's ridiculous. _It's a hand. Just a hand._ He collapses inwards and folds himself into the sheets and as if he's never even left his head finds its place on the pillow. Mrs Hudson's done the laundry, but weeks ago, so that the sheets are beginning to smell slightly musty now from having been so long unused.

In the kitchen, the light flicks off, and moment later the last yellow brightness from the sitting room also disappears. He can hear John still moving around, making his way around objects in his quest for the sofa and Sherlock smiles, because after all this time John still remembers. Doesn't need the light. Knows where all the obstacles are already.

 


	4. Four

He wakes up and it's still dark. Almost. The room is nearly lightless but the first outlines of the objects inside it are beginning to clarify themselves against the deeper shadows. It's the first suggestion of light that is pushing in past the curtains. A new light. And Sherlock realises with a certain disbelief that he's slept through the night. He lays there for a moment, surprised by morning, and as the sleep begins to clear itself from his senses he sees that he's not alone.

Limned in the suggestion of a brighter darkness, John sits, curled in the door to the bathroom. Sherlock can smell vinegar on him. New. Mrs Hudson's cleaning supply. But the fact that he still smells it means its nearly fresh and he wonders what John was doing at seven in the morning, cleaning. And more importantly, what he's doing in the doorway. Sleeping.

Sherlock shifts under the sheets and John's head comes up. The reaction immediate but sluggish. Even in the dimness Sherlock can see he's exhausted. The slope of his shoulders, the hang of his head.

“John?” he says, not sure what question he wants to ask exactly, so he just leaves it hanging there, hoping John will answer it on his own.

He doesn't, of course. Staring silently at each other across the room, Sherlock feels a shiver of uncertainty.

“John, what are you doing?”

Still no answer. _What's wrong with him?_ Sherlock can feel himself growing impatient, but as John continues to stare, entirely unresponsive, his face becoming clearer by the second, Sherlock can feel a mild concern as well. That something might actually be wrong. That this is something he won't be able to fix.

“Did you sleep?” he asks. A stupid question. Clearly he hadn't. Or no, that's not right. John's neck is stiff, as is his back. The sofa then, as he'd said. Not for very long, though. He seems frozen in place, as if he'd been constructed there along with the rest of the house. Obviously been sitting there for a while.

But stupid question or not, it seems to knock John out of his stupor. His voice emerges, cracked and slurred. “Not tired.”

Idiocy. It's obvious he's tired. Probably the blasted sofa. “Why didn't you go upstairs?” he demands.

Again no answer but he can see the way John shrinks in on himself at the question, defensive.

“Idiot,” Sherlock sighs, because _honestly._ He shuffles backwards, refusing to think about what he's doing. It's easy. He's still muddled from sleep. It's why he hates indulging, but it was clear he needed it so tries not to regret it. He raises the sheet and with an expectant look at John, he waits.

John, from the doorway, continues to stare.

Sherlock is getting cold. And worse than that, he's starting to feel like an idiot himself. From trying not to think about it, suddenly the world converges down to this one desperate question: _what is John thinking?_ This is ridiculous. It shouldn't be this hard to seduce a man who's in love with you.

“John,” he says warningly, and he hears the small inhalation that John gives.

“What—” John croaks out, and once more Sherlock interrupts him.

“Whatever you want.” And he means it. In that moment at least. And it's easy to say. Because he's certain, nearly positive, that John wants him. _What part of him, though?_ Sherlock asks himself, and pushes the question away. Unimportant. He gives the sheet a shake. “It's getting cold,” he says.

And finally John gives a huff. The first sign of the familiar coming through, that indignant, put-upon snort. “Yeah, alright,” John says, and Sherlock watches him struggle stiffly to his feet and limp to the bed. His muscles have seized up and Sherlock adds two hours to the estimated time of John's vigil.

When John reaches the bed he just stands there for a second, staring down at it, as if it's wholly unfamiliar. When his eyes meet Sherlock's, Sherlock is careful not to look away. Holds that gaze, challenges it and tries to read it. Only for a moment before John's stare moves downwards again. That same spot as before. The bullet wound. He opens his mouth to say something, but in the end doesn't need to. John sits down on the edge of the mattress, then swings his legs over and lays back. And Sherlock is inundated with it. The smell of John Watson. The smell of home. The added layer of vinegar now over it but it's fading already. Concentrated on the knees of his trousers. Sherlock folds the sheet over John's body and the smell is immediately muffled.

Sherlock is aware, incredibly aware, that he is naked. Was in fact aware of this when he'd first offered half of his bed, wondering what John would do. He wonders still, lying still and listening to John breathe, watching his chest under the blanket. His own heart is beating loudly but he can hear John's breath ratcheting upwards, the exaggerated movement of his chest. He wishes it were lighter in the room, so that he could see the flutter of John;s carotid. He's sure his heart is nearly as loud as his own and he wishes he could hear it. Considers for a brief moment actually putting his ear to that heaving chest but he can see the tension in John and isn't entirely sure that what he's seeing isn't panic.

“Sh'l'k,” John says, the name garbled and almost inaudible, but it leaves Sherlock with the certainty that John needs to relax. That to touch him now would be the greatest mistake he could make.

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock says, a useful phrase. Offering safety. And to maximise it, he makes a point of turning over, his back carefully to John, offering him privacy. He regulates his own breathing, forcibly calming himself and willing that calm onto John.

And eventually, but in a shorter span of time than he'd have expected, John begins to unwind, to come down from the height to which he'd worked himself. He's exhausted, Sherlock knows, which probably helps, and once calm it doesn't take many minutes for Sherlock to hear the gradual slowing of John's breath, and shortly, the longer, deeper inhalations that mean sleep.

He smiles to himself in the dark, almost by accident, not quite understanding the sudden impulse. But there's no one to see him. No one to know he's done it. So he let's himself smile, and eventually, when he's sure John won't wake, he turns back over to stare at that unconscious profile until he too slips back into sleep.

 


	5. Five

There is the stench of sweat, acrid and cloying. It's what wakes him, even before the cry. John. _John._

On the bed beside him, John isn't thrashing, but he is stiff and straight with his hands clenched at his side. There is a mewling sound from behind tightly clamped lips and Sherlock, scrambling to his knees on the mattress, wonders at the noise he heard, when abruptly the lips part and a cry like something dying fills the room. Sherlock can feel his hair stand on end.

It seems to release something because suddenly John Watson's in motion, clawing at the sheets, his head tossing from side to side. His lips are moving, muttering, and Sherlock tries to catch the words but he can't. Too indistinct. He doesn't know if he should wake him. If it's better to leave him. Take his hand and simply wait. He doesn't know and it's a helpless and horrifying feeling. He knows John's not in danger but the obvious suffering tears at him nonetheless. Sherlock touches him, even through the layer of clothing John feels hot, almost humid. His hair is damp where he's sweating but when a hand suddenly reaches up and clamps onto his, the grip crushing and frantic, the fingers are freezing cold.

“John,” he says, still uncertain but knowing that he's being selfish and that he can't watch this any longer. “John, stop. John, just stop.”

“I need to,” John chokes, the words distinct.

“Stop it, John.”

“No. No. No. I need to do this. I need to find him.”

“John,” Sherlock says, a little louder, a little firmer. He's frightened. He doesn't know of what. Of John. For John. He's terrified though neither of them are in any danger. They're in bed. They're in bed. He repeats it to himself. _We're in bed. There is no danger. We are home. No one is injured._ It doesn't help. He doesn't understand why this isn't helping.

“John!” he says, yells, and takes John's shoulder in his hands, kneeling over him on the bed and trying to keep him still, bring him back, make him safe. _“John!”_

“Sherlock!”

And John's eyes snap open and Sherlock isn't ready for John-the-soldier, for the sudden steel in the muscle beneath his hands, the sudden motion of a fist coming towards his face.

And he's flying. Gravity a suddenly useless concept as he tumbles backwards and feels his hands gripping at the empty space over the side of the bed, searching for a handhold that doesn't exist. And when he lands, an inelegant and slightly stunned heap, the pain blooms in his face, hot and liquid, almost indistinguishable from the searing heat of his own blood.

 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look i'm still alive!

The sound of John gasping on the bed comes at a distance, nothing but background noise to the ringing in his head. He can feel the shock on his own face but for six seconds he can't do anything about it, the command for control echoing itself inside his head but unable to get past the blockade that is hemming in the rest of his body.

He counts the seconds until he can feel the first twitch of response in the muscles of his jaw, then suddenly control comes back and he is clutching at his face, feeling the blood flooding between his fingers and dripping from his chin.

On the bed, John is upright and gasping. Sherlock notes the heaving shoulders, the chest rising and falling as his mouth gasps for oxygen, and Sherlock can't believe how stupid he's been. _Don't touch him when he's having nightmares,_ he scolds himself and has no idea why he had done it. Where that fear had come from that had made him reach out. He knows this, from early in their acquaintance, when Sherlock had run upstairs after hearing a scream and had nearly had his head shot off by a John struggling to come awake. That was when John had gotten the gun safe, the secure steel lockbox on the desk in the sitting room.

The safe is still there, of course. Empty now. Sherlock wonders where John keeps his gun now. If somewhere under a stack of shirts in Mary's flat it reposes, disarmed and waiting. Or perhaps at Harry's. Or wherever it is he's sleeping these days. Sherlock imagines a sofa, a lilo, a spare room. But the fact remains he is puzzled. He has no idea where John has been. The place he considers secure enough to guard that particular part of his existence.

John. He is wide-eyed on the bed and Sherlock knows that look, that  _not-quite-there_ glaze over his eyes. Sherlock wonders where he is and feels a sudden blazing jealously for this part of John, this part of John he's never been allowed to see, the one that has lost control, the one that has forgotten to shield himself with anger, where the light comes through the cracks. Something about that thought feels familiar and Sherlock reaches for it, trying to find where it came from, but in that moment he sees the shields slam back up over John's face. The cracks covered. The light locked inside once again.

“Sher—” His name cut off. He can feel the grating at the end of it as John's voice grinds into silence.

“John.”

And Sherlock sees the swift focus, the sudden grounding in John's face. “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” John says, and he is out of the bed and kicking at the clinging sheets in a heartbeat, falling to his knees in front of Sherlock and in the beginnings of light from the window Sherlock can nearly see the blue in John's eyes. Sherlock feels the hot pressure of John's hands on his wrists, almost the same temperature as the blood on his face, and Sherlock lets his own hands be dragged away. Keeps his eyes on John as John inspects him with care that is partly horror and partly clinical. The man warring with the doctor.

“Sherlock. Fuck. Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“'S fine,” Sherlock says and tastes his own blood in his mouth.

John drags him to the bathroom where he sits Sherlock on the toilet seat and flips on the light. There is a trail of blood leading from the bedroom and Sherlock stares at that while he listens to the water running into the sink, then flinches at the sudden shock of something cold on the back of his neck and there is a towel being shoved into his hands. John is there again, kneeling in front of him, bordered by Sherlock's thighs and Sherlock can't help but wonder what would happen if he closed that gap between them, trapped John, keeping him there. It's tempting, but there's still blood all over his face and the pain is starting to break through the numbness. He presses the towel to his face even as John raises a hand and pinches carefully at the bridge of his nose. He is so close. Their faces only a foot apart. In the stark light of the bathroom bulb John's eyes are very blue, his face a tracework of small scars and wrinkles. It's fascinating, a study in John. Sherlock wants to draw it, etch every mark into his Mind Palace. He wants to retain this part of John forever, something to be added onto with every passing year. He wants to label each line with a complete history of John, and looking now, more closely than he's ever looked before, he wonders for the first time which of those lines are because of him. Sherlock stares at him and tries to figure out which lines are new, which ones he hasn't noted before, but he realises that he's never looked this closely at John before. Never committed this detail to memory, to be saved for later use, for future reference. It's an almost unforgivable oversight.

John isn't looking at him. Those blue eyes are trained on Sherlock forehead, carefully averted, and Sherlock lets it stay there. Uses this time to commit the heavy shadows under those lake blue eyes to his Mind Palace. The deep lines at the corner of his eyes. The way they taper and fade out. The silver line of a scar at the edge of his left eyebrow, barely visible. Revealed by proximity. A secret he's never known.

For several minutes Sherlock forgets himself, forgets why they're here. But when he blinks and realises he's holding the red-stained towel in his hand and that it's nowhere near his face, he remembers again. The bleeding's stopped and for a brief second he considers faking it just to keep John here, but there are other ways to do that and John is still stiff from his earlier doorway vigil and Sherlock sees the way he unconsciously shifts his weight from knee to knee. So he says John's name and watches the slow blink as those blue eyes finally shift down and find him.

“It's stopped,” Sherlock says, and watches John's eyes flicker downwards to land on his hands and the stained towel in his lap. Without a word, he gets up and Sherlock notes the stiffness, the way he tries not to show it, the several moments it takes for him to straighten completely. He watches John go to the sink, running the hot water over a clean towel, then shutting off the tap and coming back to kneel once more between Sherlock's open thighs. In itself not unusual. But perhaps the intent is too clear now. Or too  _unclear._ Regardless, when John raises the towel to Sherlock's face, it is a movement filled with incredible grace, and the first slide of the warm, rough material against his face is a caress.

Sherlock can feel the breathless lurch in his chest, and despite what he intends, the slow fill of blood in his groin.

“I can do this,” Sherlock says, but John just frowns.

“I want to look first.”

“It's not broken,” Sherlock says almost desperately, trying not to make it sound like the protest it is. But John just gives a miniscule shake of his head.

“Just shut up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock does, because concentrating on keeping the towel around his waist from showing anything of what is happening underneath it is taking up all his energy. He thinks of Lestrade first, but when that doesn't work he thinks of Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson, and he keeps thinking about them, letting the disgust of that thought do its work on his anatomy as John cleans his face with gentle precision, nothing of the doctor in his face. It is John the lover and Sherlock can see the cracks starting to show once more, the brilliance of the light coming through, and its then that he remembers where that thought came from. From John himself, singing in a clear tenor in the bathtub one day when he had thought he was alone.

 

_There's a crack, a crack in everything_

_That's how the light gets in._

 

An image that had moved in and settled in the corner of Sherlock's Mind Palace, behind the doorway belonging to John. The crack in John Watson. Sherlock remembers throwing the door open and hearing those words in the brief seconds before the knob had cracked against the wall, announcing his presence, and the silence that had fallen that Sherlock had never again managed to break. 

And now silence again.  _Shut up, Sherlock._ Except that he's done nothing but shut up for six years. Six years of cutting John off and demanding silence in return. Six years in which he's never let John say it and so John had simply stopped trying to speak. And almost too late. Almost. He thinks of the bullet hole in his chest and he thinks how it was worth it, it was worth the wound—it was worth many wounds—to be able to be here again. To be able to have a chance to fix what had almost been too late. And despite the pain, the betrayal towards John, Sherlock finds that he is grateful. Mary could so easily have been wonderful. So very nearly had been.

In front of him, inches away, John is on his knees. There is a look on his face of a lover and the touches he makes, the towel warm and soft, is the beginnings of something more. Sherlock watches him, trying to commit this to memory, and he is still watching when John-the-lover starts to fade, as the frowning concentration takes over and the touch on his face is no longer gentle, no longer lover-like. It is hard and it hurts, the towel no longer warm and scrubbing roughly at his skin, at his lips, and there is a frantic energy to the way John leans forward, as if trying to see past the pores of Sherlock's skin and Sherlock leans back, away from this frantic, frightened gaze, flinching from the roughness of the towel tearing into his flesh.

“John!” he says, and when John doesn't respond, he grabs John's wrists, pulling forcibly away. “John!” he says again, and something falls away from John's face, or perhaps something snaps back into place, because John is back again. Normal John. Sherlock's John. Except that there is disgust on his face, something too close to horror, and when John pulls away, stumbling to his feet and backing out of the bathroom Sherlock let's him go.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock says, “I'm going to wash,” because there's something fragile that needs to be defended. He doesn't know where the disgust and fear on John's face had come from but something inside him is crumbling slowly and he needs to shore it up. He is shutting down. Can feel it happening and tries to stop it because he knows what happens after that. Once those doors are closed. He remembers six years of holding them shut. The devastation they had wrought when bursting open. His own crack, and the light that had poured in. He doesn't look when the door slams shut behind John. A different door. One not nearly so impassable. He can open this one. He knows precisely what awaits him on the other side, if only he can stop this frantic terror that is suddenly flooding him and making him unsure. Unsure of John. When did that happen? When did John, of all things, turn unexpected?

He goes to the sink, clutching at the edges with white hands. He stares at the face in the mirror and tries to pick it apart. Deduces it with the same powers he uses on everyone else, and he sees red, swollen lips where John had dragged the towel too roughly against them. Red swollen nose where John had hit him. Red swollen scar where John's wife had shot him. There are bruises under his eyes, from exhaustion and from the earlier blow. There is a nest of wild hair. Wide, frantic eyes. And there, on his chest, just above where the bullet went in, there is a tiny speck of blood.  _From shaving,_ Sherlock thinks, and scrapes it away with the edge of a nail. And realises.

John's fascination with his chest. John's horror at his bleeding nose. Sherlock sees again John's fixed look as he had stared at him, the desperation to clean him. To remove the blood. And Sherlock feels like the biggest idiot in the world even as he shuts his eyes and remembers more blood. On John's cuffs, on his shirt. On his hands.

He is moving before he realises it, throwing open the bathroom door and almost tripping on John's clothing, strewn in the hallway. He hears the tap running in the kitchen, the water loud in the basin, and a noise, like a whining dog. 

His foot tangles in John's vest where streaks of brown blood dry in faint marks, and Sherlock kicks it away as he stumbles around the corner. He sees the cloud of steam from the hot water obscuring John's face, bending over the sink, John's hands scrubbing under the blistering stream and John's whole body, naked and shaking. John is humming, high-pitched and tuneless, and there is a smile on his face, dangerous and demented and Sherlock doesn't stop to consider. A nightmare all over again. He grabs John and pulls, except that this time he is ready for the punch when it comes and he dodges it, maintaining his grip, his arms encircling, so that when he loses his balance they both fall, narrowly missing the corner of the table.

“John!” he screams, remembering the nightmare, trying to wake him up from whatever place this is he's in. “John! John! Stop! John!”

And suddenly John freezes, every fighting muscle going suddenly limp and he hears, from the man encased in his arms, “Sherlock.”

A beautiful sound, and Sherlock clutches at the body in his grip and stares at the swollen red appendages that are trying to find him, blistered and fevered and burnt, and something in him snaps. The same thing that had stopped him at the poolside. The same thing that had made him take that step off the roof. The same thing that, months ago, had opened his mouth and said,  _“You chose her.”_ Sherlock stares at John—damaged, injured, unprotected John—and he wonders how much of this is because of him.

“John. Oh God, John. Your hands.”

And it's like the words wake something up in John because the moment Sherlock says them he feels the body in his arms clench and the sudden hiss of pain as John starts to swear, a long steady stream. And he needs to go to the hospital. Sherlock needs to go back there, but this time it will be John who will be in the bed, swathed and bandaged and drowning in antiseptics and drugs and machines and wires and Sherlock doesn't know if he can. If he's even capable.

“John?”

“Water,” John croaks, cutting him off. “I should—I need—” He's shivering, violently, but he doesn't feel cold. He feels hot and he is holding his hands out like something strange and detached before him, a fussy child with sticky fingers, trying to distance himself from this abomination that has latched itself onto his body and won't let go.

“Hospital,” Sherlock says. Tries to say more but he can't. He is imagining John, limp and unconscious and unprotected, covered in stiff linen and reeking of cleaning fluid and medicine.

“No!” John says, and the word is like a bullet being discharged from a gun. “'S fine. Cool water. Fine.” He's shivering, his eyes wide with shock and Sherlock is still lying here, on the kitchen floor, doing nothing.

“John—”

“Please,” John says, and it is a plea. The fear behind it the same as Sherlock's, and though he knows he should insist he doesn't. Unlocks the cage of his limbs and drags John upright. Grabs a chair and pushes it towards the sink where the tap is still running, then grabs John and pushes him down, fear making his movements abrupt. 

With shaking fingers Sherlock turns the taps, fiddling until the steam is gone and his scientists hands feels the temperate cool. It is swift work but it feels like forever. John is rocking on the chair, eyes wide and pupils shrunk to nothing. His hands are out before him and he's staring at them as though he's never seen them before. And when the water is perfect, Sherlock takes them and puts them under the stream. Feels the momentary resistance at that first brief pain, then the sudden slackening as the pain fades, as the burn starts to ease, and John starts to slide sideways into him. He is shutting down, the shock wearing off, his eyes sliding closed. His bare skin feels hot still against Sherlock's but the shivering has stopped, replaced by occasional spasms until they too are gone and the sink is filled and Sherlock stands there, with his hands still on John's wrists, keeping them submerged in the cool water, while John hums disjointedly into his hip.

 


	7. Seven

There is almost complete silence in the flat. Only the drone of morning traffic from the other side of the world. Car horns and lorry engines muffled by glass and brick and insulation. John is pressed against him and Sherlock can feel the flicker of his eyelashes brushing against his skin.

The towel, perched on Sherlock's hips, is becoming a precarious defence, and for a brief moment he considers letting it fall. But the fear-based adrenaline is starting to fade and the combination of its departure and the soft weight of a naked John slumped against his side is proving too much. Sherlock clenches his teeth, willing Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson back again and they're conjured up with reluctance. It would be easy now, the let the towel fall. To let John see. They're at the perfect height right now. Sherlock would only need to turn a bit. John is docile. Malleable. Sherlock could let his wrists go. Put a hand on the back of that soft grey head, guide it to where it needs to be. It would be so easy to part those open lips just that little bit more, a gentle but insistent suggestion. Sherlock can almost hear the sounds that John would make, small puzzled moans at first, then soft resigned sighs, reverberating around the invasion of his mouth. Sherlock would help him. Wouldn't push him too far. Would hold his head and guide him. John would barely have to do any work at all.

He comes back to himself with start. John is gone, sitting up straight in his chair and wearily pushing himself to his feet. His hands are still in the water in the sink and Sherlock, whose grip has gone slack, tightens around them again, holds them there.

“John—”

“I have to go,” John says. His voice is slurred and drunk sounding.

Sherlock stares at him, certain he's misheard. “What?”

John sighs. He's tired, but when he speaks again his voice is stronger. “I need to go. I'll call a cab. Don't worry.”

“Don't be stupid. You can't leave now.”

“You need to rest. I'm—” he stops. Swallows. “I'm not exactly helping here,” he says wryly.

“You are,” Sherlock says quickly, and John snorts. He's trying to pull away, gently attempting to disengage himself from Sherlock's grip.

“Sherlock—”

“No. You need to stay. What if something happens.”

“Like what? You get punched in the face? Wrestled to the ground? Shot? Sherlock, I'm useless. I'm bloody worse than useless.”

“To you. What if something happens to you.”

John looks up at him from under raised eyebrows. “Sherlock,” he says, incredulous, as if speaking to a child. “It's a burn. Mild. Christ, you think I've never had worse? Just. I'm fine. Alright? I'll tell Mrs Hudson. She'll make sure you're alright.” He stands up, trying to pull himself away and Sherlock doesn't let go. He's gripping onto John's wrists and staring, wondering how to stop this. What to do.

“John,” he says. Then again: “John.” And finally: “Stay.”

John looks at him, eyes tired, entire body slumping inwards. Sherlock wills him to listen. To see. John's gaze flicker downwards. Over bare chest and precarious towel, the single thing left between them. At the increasingly obvious bulge beneath the towel, screaming for attention. And John stares down at himself. Naked.

“Sherlock,” he says, patient and strained and tired, so tired. “I can't.”

Sherlock stares at him, trying to figure out if he can change this, change John's mind. But the word from John's mouth is barely audible. Barely there. _Can't._ What does that even mean? He stares at John and he sees the jaw thrust outwards. The clenched teeth. The flared nostrils. Sherlock knows that face.

“Fine,” he says, and releases John's wrists and steps back. Glances around the kitchen. Searching. Desperate. “Tea?” he asks, and doesn't think his voice is shaking.

“For God's sake—”

“It's just tea, John.”

A pause. Sherlock's already at the kettle, his back to John. He hears the sound of water splashing gently in the sink.

“Yeah,” John says. “Alright. But afterwards—”

“You're going,” Sherlock waves his hand vaguely in the air. “Home. Wherever.”

John says nothing. Just stares, and Sherlock grabs the kettle and turns towards the sink. John steps out of the way, his hands dripping on the floor. He holds them at his side, fingers stiff and tense and Sherlock can see the slow return of pain in the set of his face as he sets the kettle on its element and flips the switch.

“There's a first aid kit,” Sherlock says.

“Right. Yeah. I'll go,” John says and Sherlock lets him.

The moment John's out of sight he dives for the cupboard. Not the one where the tea is kept. By the time John's voice comes from over his shoulder he has what he's looking for.

“Did you move the tea?” John asks.

Sherlock rises to his feet and smiles awkwardly, shutting the cupboard with a deliberate click. “It's been a while,” he says with a shrug, and reaches for the correct cupboard. John turns away, the first aid kit clutched under his arm, and lets it fall with a thunk to the table.

“I need to get dressed,” he says and the slight slur is back in his words. Sherlock slides a look at him from under his lashes and sees the exhaustion planted in deep grooves across his face. He says nothing as he prepares the mugs and gets the milk from the fridge, but he's aware of John hesitating in the hallway, the quiet shuffle of clothing being shifted about. The wordless grunt of effort in tandem with the click of the kettle turning itself off.

“Tea's ready!” Sherlock says, louder than he meant, but he hears the defeated silence from the hallway and then John reappears, wearing his pants unevenly hitched across his hips.

“Ta,” John says, reaching for the cup and nearly dropping it when the warm porcelain touches his hands. Sherlock barely manages to save it as John curses.

“Sorry! Sorry. Idiot. What were you thinking?” A bizarre collection of blame. Sherlock has no idea if he's talking to John or to himself. “Sit,” he says, dragging a chair over and practically pushing John into it, then putting John's tea on the table beside him, he kneels on the floor between John's thighs and opens the first aid kit.

It's a powerful position, and a frightening one. Sherlock thinks of John, not so many minutes ago in this exact same pose, and wonders how he resisted. Everything's very close all of a sudden. Everything incredibly touchable. He can hear his own breath start to quicken as he rummages through the kit looking for the burn cream and he's incredibly aware of John, of John's focus. John's pants are grey and he is sees the shadow of John's growing interest between those thighs, thighs still strong and dusted with pale hair. There is a long scar on the inside of the right one, almost to the groin. Sherlock wants to touch it. Nearly does, but he is aware of John bending forward, coming closer, of the shift of his breath in his hair. Sherlock is almost afraid to move, of disturbing that deliberate trajectory, and when he feels the pressure on his head, at his temple, buried in his hair, he almost stops breathing.

“Sherlock,” John says and it's half breath, half moan. “Jesus, what am I doing.”

“Stay,” Sherlock breathes back, terrified of making too much noise, of moving too quickly. “John, please stay.”

John says nothing. They hold there, breathing. Too much heat between them. Too much everything.

And then John draws back. Letting the cold in. Welcoming reason and distance and Sherlock very nearly grabs him. Drags him downwards to the floor, to him. But he knows John. Knows when the time for arguments has ended. So instead he finds the burn cream, and without looking at John takes his left hand and starts to slather the cream on with careful fingers.

Sherlock can almost feel the sigh of relief in the way John's body partially collapses in the chair. The sense of ease is palpable, some of the tension falling away, the involuntary twitch of muscles starting to settle.

When the cream is spread, Sherlock wraps John's left hand carefully with gauze, and deliberately, with a smile, he reaches over and once more hands John his cup of tea.

John, his left hand clumsy with the bandages, still manages to grasp it and he grins, blushing somewhat for no particular reason, and sips at the cup while Sherlock repeats the first aid process on John's right hand. The cream first, blissfully cool, and by the time he starts to wind the gauze he knows that the compound he put in John's tea is enough.

John's sighs are becoming deeper, louder. There is the faint strain of a disjointed hum in each breath and he is swaying, a slight smile on his face. The tiredness is still there but he's relaxed, his muscles slowly coming undone.

“I slept,” he says at once point, sounding uncertain, and Sherlock ignores him, concentrates on wrapping John's hand. “I slept with you,” John says a second later. He sounds surer now. “I wanted to. More, though. I wanted.” He stops, seems to forget what he was going to say. 

Sherlock almost goes completely still, waiting for that sentence to end. He holds the unfinished roll of dressing suspended in the air and waits. Waits. And only when he's sure there won't be any more does he hear it. John's voice, more a sigh than actual words, “Loved you. So long,” before the words are gone and he is humming, too loud and out of tune.

But the time Sherlock is finished with the gauze, dropping it to the floor and letting it roll away, John's eyes are hooded and he looks drunk. He is staring at Sherlock, at his hands, at the gauze on the floor as if trying to work it all out.

“You know,” John says, stumbling over the words as if discovering new edges, and every sense that Sherlock possesses is on high alert. Waiting for the end of that sentence—“You could just pick it up,” John finishes, and Sherlock sees that he is squinting at the gauze, trailing across the kitchen floor. He scowls and pushes himself upright.

“Bed,” he says, annoyed and disappointed. “Now.”

“I slept,” John says. He sounds almost sober this time. Almost. Sherlock stands above him, wondering what happens now. Does he lift him up and carry him bodily into the bedroom? Does he drag John to his feet and lead him there? All he knows is that they will end there. Somehow. In some fashion. They will end up in Sherlock bed and that's all that matters. And something of this intent translates because John, staring up at him under slowly blinking lids, finally gives a defeated huff. “Bloody hell,” he says, and pushes himself upright with startling speed, practically launching himself at Sherlock who is square in his path. He nearly falls but Sherlock's arms are around him, almost outside of his control, and for a moment he can't move. Is more than a little stunned at the amount of skin that is touching. It is warm and a little bit sticky and he can feel the hardening bulge under John's pants pressing against the top of his thigh where his own erection is insistently pushing into the hot skin of John's abdomen. And then John giggles and Sherlock can feel him collapsing slowly downwards. A bandaged hand swipes at the towel around his waist and he can feel it loosen, beginning to fall, and all of a sudden he is aware of how little actually separates them.

“Sherlock,” John says. He is pawing at his own hips now, trying to pull his pants off but his bandaged fingers won't him get a grip and for a brief, mad minute Sherlock considers actually helping him. Just letting them both fall in a heap on the floor with nothing left between them.

“Shit,” he says with no idea of what he's actually cursing, and tightening his hold on John he drags him forcibly towards to bedroom.

John stumbles and giggles beside him, every step a little closer to complete collapse. They nearly fall together in the doorway and Sherlock looks down to realise that John's pants have slipped down around his ankles now, tethering them, and with a heave he manages to dump John giggling and squirming on the bed before dragging the last precarious bit of protection from between them. His own towel is back in the hallway, lost along the way.

The blankets are tangled and twisted on the floor, drops of blood spattered among them. He separates them with impatient jerks, discarding the cotton sheet which has several browning stains among its folds, then snaps the heavier blanket straight and lets it drift down on top of John, who is writhing on the bed as if all his muscles are trying to move all at once, each one independent of the other.

Sherlock pulls it back so only John's head is sticking out, and John smiles, huge and idiotic. “Sherlock,” he says, and it's a sigh.

There is a moment, the briefest, most crucial moment, in which Sherlock stops. Hesitates as he stares at this man, trusting and trustworthy in his bed, naked and exposed and—in this moment—childlike. The briefest moment where he nearly,  _nearly_ pulls back. Turns and leaves. Goes to the sofa or the second bedroom or the floor. Anything. Anywhere.

But it's only a moment. Barely noticeable at all. And then he is climbing into the bed beside John and sliding in close. So close. Till there is nothing left between them at all except empty space.

“Sherlock,” John says. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Shurrrr. Lock.”

“Go to sleep, John.”

“Nope. We need to talk.”

“We will. Later.”

“Laaaaaaay. Tuh. Er.” John goes silent. Giggles. Then goes silent again before squinting heavily and pushing his head into the pillow. “You. Drugged me.”

“Astute,” Sherlock murmurs, wanting this to be over. For John to just go to sleep so that they can wake up and John will still be here and they'll be able to talk about this properly. About everything properly. But mostly, John will still be here.

“Shouldn't have,” John informs him. “We need to talk.” It is clear how much effort these words are costing him.

“Later,” Sherlock repeats between his teeth. Getting impatient, getting bored.

“Nope,” John says, and Sherlock has to restrain himself from snapping, from just putting a hand over his mouth and telling him to shut up. He wonders if he should have used more of the powder he had made. Maybe this would have gone faster, then. Sent him to sleep more quickly. He's about to say something, trying to find some word that will make all this stop, when all the tension suddenly drains from John and there is suddenly a soft warmth burrowing into Sherlock's body and John is pressing against him and almost involuntarily Sherlock is pulling him closer, needing to feel that skin again, feel the space between them disappear. “Good,” John sighs, patting at him with his bandaged hands. “Good.”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock says, forcing himself to stay calm. To keep breathing.

“I've gotten up wrong again,” John replies, and Sherlock tries to answer, but his voice has finally stopped working and what would he even say to that anyway? So he stays silent, says nothing, and beside, against him, John falls. The drop into sleep abrupt and deep and Sherlock lays there, John in his arms, against his body, and tries to find his patience.

 


	8. Eight

He swims towards the surface. Air and light and heat. Sherlock doesn't realise till he's waking up that he fell asleep at all.

Everything is too hot. He's pressed against John, or John is pressed against him. It takes him a while to figure it all out, to collect all the sensations into a coherent whole. He traces limbs, stretched beneath his own, and the edge of a rib, hard against the sensitive pads of his fingers. He feels the rise and fall of a chest that isn't his own and a heartbeat, almost audible in the flutter of a carotid vein, just at the edge of his half-closed eyes.

He remembers everything at once. There's no gradual awareness. He knows before he's fully awake that this is John and why they are here, and with that remembrance comes a gradual fear. Of what John will remember, or what he won't.

Sherlock considers leaving him. Slipping from beneath the blanket, from over top John. Leave him sleeping, to wake up on his own. To remember or not. Sherlock doesn't know what he prefers. There shouldn't be anything in the drug to affect the memory, but one can never be quite certain with these things and the part of him that is still detached is almost excited to find out. He wonders if he should try and wake John up. Test the strength of the powder when the subject is being stimulated by outside influences. He's knows it's more practical to let it run it's course, however. More scientific. Next time he'll try to wake John up, though. See what happens. He's already designing the spreadsheet in his mind when John starts to stir.

Sherlock blinks, snapping back to his bedroom and his bed without transition. Back to John, who is sighing and making quiet sounds of waking up. Sherlock watches, fixing his gaze on John whose brow is furrowing even before he opens his eyes. Sherlock watches him and breathes, smelling him. Laundry powder and soap, tea and gun powder, worn leather and sun-warmed sofa, Baker Street and home. John flexes against him and under him, their skin sliding where the sweat has made it slick. They are both naked, a fact which, nine hours earlier, had not seemed like such a large thing. Now, however, Sherlock can feel something in his chest start tighten, making it hard to breathe. At his side, John gives a deep sigh then freezes with a frown on his face and Sherlock can see him trying to hold still, to process something. _Pain,_ he thinks. _Or nausea._

“Do you still want to sleep?” he asks, and hopes John says no. He doesn't want to sleep anymore. He wants to start this. Whatever this is. Something will happen now, something will  _need_ to happen. Naked in bed is too large a change, even for John Watson to simply walk off.

A single eye cracks open to look at him, blurry and not quite focused yet. The last fingers of the December day reach in past the curtains and illuminate the depth of blue in that half-awake gaze. Sherlock knows that look. The look of John seeing his options spread out before him and making his choice.

“No,” John finally says, and starts to turn away, only to freeze again and the flinch of pain on his face is clear this time.

“John?”

“What did you give me?”

Sherlock's turn to go still.  _Memory still intact, then._ “Something I've been working on,” he says carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” John says, sounding tired. “How?”

“How? Oh. In your tea.”

“What tea?”

“The tea I made you while you were soaking your hands.”

He can see John trying to work it out, can see him coming up blank. “I don't remember tea,” he says.

_Not entirely intact, then._

“Interesting,” Sherlock says, and in his head he starts to check off columns and make notes in the newly assembled margins.

Except that it's difficult to concentrate because the silence coming from John now is as loud as a scream. This isn't the noisy whirr of thoughts, but the heavy bass thrum of a judgement being made. Judgement without words that will weigh and consider and come back to find Sherlock wanting. It makes him nervous. It makes him frightened. And he hates himself for that fear. He wants to both shake John and run away from him, but the expression on John's face gives Sherlock pause. It is exhausted. It is defeated. This is John given up, when there's nothing left to fight for anymore. It's the expression of John collapsing into a stranger and murmuring  _he's my friend._ The expression of John past the point of being able to care that he's being watched. John, cracked and leaking light.

“John?” he prompts, afraid of this silence, of the sheer noise of it, like a bass turned too high, creating fissures in the foundations and dragging the walls down from the inside.

For a minute Sherlock doesn't think John will answer. That this silence, this noise, will go on forever, pulling apart London, then the world.

Then, “Why?” John says, and though Sherlock isn't entirely sure how, he understands with a terrible abruptness that the destruction is something that's been happening for a long time, and he wonders how long he's been standing in the rubble without having noticed at all.

“Why?” he repeats, trying for time, though he knows what John means. Just doesn't know how to answer him. How to explain. But John doesn't bite. Knows Sherlock at least as well as this. So he goes for the easiest answer, the one that's true, but isn't the truth.

“You were hysterical. In pain.”

“And you couldn't think of another way.”

“This was easiest.”

And the quiet that comes after those words is somehow worse than the one from before. Sherlock wonders again how much John remembers. How much he's forgotten.

“How do you feel?” he asks, needing to fill that void with some other sound than John's silence, only to have John look at him again, once more laying out his options, once more making his choice among the routes laid down as possible.

“Headache,” John says after a moment, his voice clinical, precise. A doctor reading off a list of symptoms in a patient. “Nausea.” He opens his eyes, a determined gesture, finding Sherlock again in the space slightly above him, and for a moment it seems as though he sees something to make him pause. Something that, for a brief moment, has the fear falling away, and Sherlock tries something that worked once before.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and he means it. Tries to mean it. But he's not entirely sure what it is that he's sorry for, either.  _Everything,_ he thinks, though isn't sure what that means, even in his own head.

“Right,” says John, and like a door closing, his eyes shut again. The light being shut inside, the crack closing, leaving Sherlock in the dark, and even as John sighs, pressing closer as if there is any space left between them, Sherlock can feel him pulling away.

“John,” he says again, and because he's run out of words, out of desperation: “Stay.”

John pulls back, peeling himself from Sherlock and a thread of cool air invades the breathless space. He opens his eyes, blinks and frowns against another lurch of pain, then narrows his eyes and stares. Stares at Sherlock as if trying to dissect him, see past the skin and muscle and bone to the matter underneath. And Sherlock wants him to. Wills himself to be open, for John to find whatever it is that he needs, because Sherlock is sure that it's there. Even if he himself can't find it, Sherlock knows that somewhere it's inside him and that if anyone will find it it will be John Watson. 

“Why?” John says again. A different question this time, but just as impossible to answer.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but he has no idea the words he's supposed to use, so he shuts it again. Looks at John, who is peering up at him, asking for something that Sherlock knows he can give if only he knew what exactly it was. The thing that John will find, because that's what John does. That's what John always does. Illuminates everything with the light leaking out. And all at once Sherlock is cold. The daylight is gone and the room is dark, but the cracks are there. Letting the light in, letting it out. And he leans forward, with silence, with reverence, and kisses John again.

 


	9. Nine

It's like the bathroom again, slightly astray. A bit to the left and down. Sherlock tastes John's skin, the ridge of a lip just caught under his own. He pulls back, furious and frustrated. This shouldn't be so difficult. He wonders if it's worth trying again, if he's just going to prove this incompetent at it. He doesn't remember this being so complicated, but then again, _John_ is complicated. _John._ John whom he has just kissed for the second time and who still hasn't said anything.

But surely it's just a formality at this point. They're in bed together, pressed together from shoulders to ankles, completely naked. Surely, if this meant anything other than the obvious, John would have said something by now.

But John.

John is complicated.

Sherlock makes himself look, makes himself open his eyes and look at that familiar face below his. He sees wide eyes, dark and undecided, those deep gouges in John's forehead that means he doesn't quite know what to do, how safe it is to _feel._

 _It's safe,_ Sherlock thinks, broadcasting it to John in his mind. Perhaps it even gets through, though Sherlock knows that's nonsense. But he finds he doesn't particularly care suddenly because John is leaning forward, the tracery of his face softening and coming to a conclusion.

The light is leaking out. He is incandescent.

Sherlock has to shut his eyes against the brightness when the bandaged hand comes up and wraps itself around his neck, pulling him down, and Sherlock has a stab of panic that he doesn't understand and he has to tell himself, over and over again, that this is what he wants. This is right. But it's strange, this angle. Horizontal on the bed with _John_ seeking _him_ this time. Sherlock wonders, briefly, if John will miss, too, and he almost starts to giggle, but then in the darkness behind his closed lids, John's lips find his, perfectly on target, completely willing, and without hesitation, and almost without knowing how it happened, Sherlock realises that he's kissing John. _He's kissing John,_ and his lips are moving and John's mouth opens beneath his, the slightest fraction, and Sherlock just breathes.

Now that it's begun he's terrified of John coming to his senses and stopping it. He presses forward, as if by sheer force of will, by the looming pressure of his body he will be able to overcome any hesitation, any doubt. He is encroaching and he knows it, one limb at a time, sliding past the barrier of John's body. He presses his tongue forward against firm lips, to taste, and John opens and lets him in and he pushes in gleefully, almost triumphantly. He feels John's sigh more than he hears it, a sound wholly contented, and a moment later another sound, something small and pleading, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to wrap himself around him and never let him go, to tell him it's okay, that he's safe, that it's not his fault. None of this is John's fault. But instead he keeps kissing him, keeps pushing further past the invisible barrier of John Watson's walls. He can feel them crumbling with every press of his lips, every lap of his tongue, every sigh that John lets escape, the cracks widening and the light spilling out. In Sherlock's head he is repeating it, a mantra that he is directing towards John, a promise: _safe safe safe safe safe safe safe safe safe safe safe..._ It's not until he is on top of John, fully stretched out, John's hands trapped beneath his own, that he can feel that last wall fall away and he opens his eyes to see John and he is fascinated by the man beneath him, the stranger, so familiar. Trusting. _Trusting._ He has never seen this John before. John who is still, who is limp, who isn't fighting. John. His John. And something in him falters. At this burden he never knew he'd need to carry.

And maybe something of this translates, because seconds later John gives a sigh and Sherlock feels his lips move to form words under his own.

“We need to talk,” John says between kisses, between breaths.

And Sherlock can feel the way the world begins to slip in between them again, the first brick of John's walls being rebuilt, and he pushes it away, frantically, furiously. _Not now. Not yet._ “We will,” he says, “But not now.”

He kisses John with all the fury of deep fear. He kisses John and presses down on him, finding the place where their pelvises meet and the two fevered lengths of their penises press against each other. He thrusts with his hips and beneath him John arches upwards, wordless and wall-less. He gives a cry, something pleading and surprised and wanting, and Sherlock does it again, thrusts downwards and swallows John's choked plea with his mouth, biting hard on the lip he catches between his teeth and tastes blood.

It is invigorating, this power, the taste of blood that isn't his on his tongue. He pulls back and John gives a snarl and chases after him, stopped short by Sherlock's restraint and Sherlock grins, seeing the frustration, the need in John's open face, his teeth snapping at empty air. Something wild that's been trapped, and Sherlock almost laughs out loud from the joy of it, from knowing it was him who trapped it.

“Greedy,” he mocks, and sees John's eyes flash, and Sherlock wishes he was better prepared. That there was a way he could do this with John tied down and helpless. He files it away for next time, shifting his weight to his left elbow, releasing John's wrist. A compromise, for now, out of necessity. He can see the animal behind John's eyes considering escape, but he doesn't give it a chance. He reaches between them and with a steady hand, wraps his fingers around John's penis.

The sound John makes is a choked and startled cry. His head pushes back and his hips arch upwards so violently that he nearly throws Sherlock and for several seconds he is thrusting himself through the circle of Sherlock's hand, fucking himself inside the slick cage of fingers. Sherlock, still on top of him, lets him do it for several seconds, rides it out, lets the gradual shift of his own stiff penis slip between the open space of John's thighs and come to rest, pressed up beneath the heavy heat of John's testicles before tightening his grip and stopping him. John is swearing at him, his legs wide and his hips searching, begging for relief, and Sherlock wants to give it to him but not yet, because the sight of John, wide open and wanting, is blinding. And oh god he wants to move, to push inwards, slip a little further down and just thrust. It would be so easy. He can almost feel it, that heat, radiating from that spot, leaking out and leaving John in order to illuminate Sherlock and it would be so easy, _so easy._ So he lets it, lets it happen as he starts to move his hand up and down over John's length, as John stutters upwards seeking more. Sherlock lets the tip of his own penis find that fevered entrance and it is so hot, it is so hot, he can't help pressing forward, and as he does, in the circle of his fingers, John gives a sudden shout and comes.

It is glorious, the look on John's face, utter helplessness, something dying, and Sherlock kisses him, presses his lips against him and swallows his whimpers and sighs, owns them, knowing that he was what caused them. He doesn't know if he wants to shout in triumph or circle his limbs around John and surround him, build new walls made entirely of his own self, leave John protected and safe inside their cage.

And slowly, slowly, John starts to come back, the sighs and whimpers becoming breaths and silence, the helplessness morphing into cautious wonder. Only then does Sherlock finally reach for his own penis, still hard and aching against John's unbreached entrance, and he imagines it, imagines thrusting into that heat, that light, the incandescence of John Watson, and it barely takes ten strokes before he is coming, pressing himself against the beginnings of the inside of John and imagining that part of him is getting through.

As soon as the last tremor leaves him Sherlock collapses, felling himself onto the hapless expanse of John beneath him. He is hot and sticky and he feels the slickness of John's come, cooling between them, and he expects it when John's hands come up, expects to feel them pushing him gently aside, that warmth disappearing either permanently or not, he's not sure. But when the arms keep moving, circling slowly and coming to rest with all their swaddling against his back, Sherlock almost startles himself. Almost doesn't know what to call this, this thing he's feeling. Relief and laughter and rest. Only when he makes himself shift sideways, when the blanket gets kicked aside and the cool air of the room hits his skin and makes him realise just how hot he really was, when John gives a last moan before his eyes close and he falls asleep with his cheek pressed against Sherlock's arm, does Sherlock realise what this is, and he identifies it, checking off all the right columns and smiles: _happiness._

 


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this and suffering through my horrible update habits. happy last chapter, all!

It doesn't last. It can't, of course.

He dozes. He doesn't know how long but the sound of traffic outside has quickened. Well into rush hour. He estimates six in the evening by the complete absence of light and realises with an unpleasant shock that he's done almost nothing but sleep since arriving home. He remembers how restless he was the last days at the hospital, the inactivity eating at him. Making his body hum, his mind buzz. Erratic and frustrated, needing to move and not being able to. And now, home, not _wanting_ to move. It disturbs him, but not enough to get up. John is breathing deeply into his shoulder, asleep.

This can't last. He knows that. John was right. They need to talk. The good thing about the forced inactivity is that it had given him time to think. Time to slot everything into place. He knows what he needs to do. Needs John to do. He doesn't know how much trouble he'll have convincing him but in the end John always does as he asks. It will be easier if John doesn't know, though. He had handed him an excuse all those weeks ago. _You chose her._ He had given John that, and though he hadn't seen much sign of John accepting that hastily assembled explanation of events, he also knows that he can sway him if he needs to. He just has to find the words, the right facial expressions to go with them. John is easy to manipulate. Now, perhaps, with the lingering scent of sex still between them, even easier.

He considers waking John but doesn't. Feels proud of himself for that. He doesn't have long to wait, however. Within a very few minutes he can feel the deep sigh that bridges consciousness, the flicker of eyelashes against his neck. John is warm, so warm, and absurdly, Sherlock wishes he would go back to sleep. Considers closing his own eyes, but John's voice, gravelly and slow, rumbles out to settle in the hollow of his throat.

“We need to talk,” John says, without preamble. A matter-of-fact statement of the truth of things.

Sherlock hums an agreement. “About Mary.” His voice is neutral, her name deliberately softened. He needs John to go along with this, but he still hates that phantom impression of her coming between them, intruding in this temporary space they've built. Nonsensical, of course. She was always here. John's wife. Sherlock's intended murderer. She had never left.

John is silent in the wake of her disturbance, but it feels neither fraught nor tense. Sherlock feels the brush of eyelashes against his throat again, and Sherlock realises with an amusement that makes his chest feel suddenly too tight that John's completely distracted by the simple touch of their bodies.

It's too much right now. Given what Sherlock's about to do. He threads a hand in John's hair, feels the softness of it against his fingers, lets it settle on his palm. He tightens his hand slightly, not enough to hurt but to get John's attention, and with a sigh John stops blinking and Sherlock can feel his attention coming back to him.

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asks.

John doesn't answer right away. His breath is slow and Sherlock realises that he is deliberately matching the rise and fall of Sherlock's own chest. He feels a physical pang, something almost painful, and he wonders how mad he must have been to do this. To open himself up to this when he knew this moment had to come. When he would need to push it all away again.

“What will you do, John?” he says, because John hasn't answered. John is silent and breathing and Sherlock needs to get this over with now.

“I won't kill her,” John says. “I can't.”

Sherlock freezes. He can actually feel his brain stop moving for a moment as it tries to absorb this. The implications of this, of John even thinking this was on offer. The implication of John thinking he would be involved.

 _Never,_ Sherlock swears, and has to stop himself from physically wrapping himself around John, of forming a barrier between this fragile, precious flesh and the world that wants to do it harm. _Never._

“I meant,” Sherlock says, forcing his voice into something steady, something neutral. “I meant, will you stay with her?”

John's turn to freeze, and Sherlock feels it in every nerve stretched out alongside his own. John pulls away and for a moment Sherlock considers restraining him, pulling him back, not letting that space open up between them, but he sees John's face a second later, staring at him as if he's a stranger and he knows that would have been a mistake. Disastrous. John is looking at him and it is the same look he had given Mary all those weeks ago. Standing in this same flat when the reality of who she was, of what she had done, had finally crashed down around him, and for a moment the realisation of it's being directed at him throws him off, makes Sherlock almost perceptibly flinch against its implied accusation. He controls himself, though. This isn't the time for emotions. He shuts them down again, one at a time, pushes them back far enough that they won't get in the way at this crucial moment. He needs John to listen.

“John?”

John hums a response. Short and tight-lipped. The sound he makes when he's trying to hold on to the last vestiges of control.

This is the step before the explosion, the point when the idea gets planted. Sherlock will make the proposal. John will demand to know if he's joking. He'll yell and wave his arms around. He will probably go for a walk. And when he comes back there will be the familiar silence, the sulk, then the grudging acceptance.

It's an old routine, one they've honed. Slipping back into it is easy and comfortable and it gives Sherlock a sense of relief that this at least will never change, that this is something he'll always be able to count on.

So he says it. The idea. The proposal. The course of action charted and brought home. “Stay with Mary,” Sherlock says, and almost leaves it there. But he remembers this new leverage, the scent of it still heavy between them. “I want you to.” _For me._

Except John doesn't ask if he's joking, and he doesn't smile.

“Fuck off,” he says instead, and the tone of it, scathing and dripping, is something filled with poison. Sherlock's never heard this John before and when he starts to move away Sherlock almost unconsciously tightens his grip on him, a sense of unease pulling at his consciousness, making him suddenly aware that he can't let John get too far. Something's gone wrong. He has no idea what.

 _“Fuck off,”_ John says again. There is anger there. Fear. A wild look of panic about his eyes, something trapped and desperate. And there's disgust. At Sherlock.

“Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you._ You. You do not make this decision. Neither of you.”

Sherlock stares at him. His entire brain is screaming at him, telling him he's miscalculated. That's he made some terrible mistake somewhere. But he doesn't know where. The pattern should have held. The pattern of everything they are, how they are. He doesn't understand why this happened.

“John—” He reaches out and John pulls away, nearly falls backwards off the bed in his effort to evade Sherlock's touch. He rolls gracelessly to his feet and is across the room and heading to the door nearly before Sherlock can register that this is happening.

Sherlock scrambles up after him, reading the frantic, half-mad movements from earlier when John had scalded his hands in the sink, and Sherlock is across the room in two strides, catching John and wrapping him in his arms, _willing_ him to calm down, to come back.

“Stop it. _John, stop._ Just. _Listen to me.”_

John is panting, Sherlock can feel it in his whole body, the heaving struggle of his frame. When he speaks, it has the sound of words having been pushed through teeth clenched tightly shut.

“She _lied,”_ John says, and Sherlock almost laughs aloud.

“For God's sake, John,” he snaps. _“I_ lie.”

“Not about that.”

“Just. _Stop!_ Stop fighting me!”

“Fuck off,” John says, and there is nothing in his voice, in his tone, in his body clenched tightly against Sherlock's, to give warning of what he does next. It is so fast. Sherlock is upright and then suddenly he's not. His feet have left the ground and he's on his back on the floor, the breath leaving him in a whoosh, while John is stepping over him, not even bothering to look down. Turning Sherlock into something to be ignored. Sherlock makes a halfhearted grab for an ankle as it passes by him and almost gets kicked in the face.

He waits only long enough to reorient himself to what's up and what's down, then pushes himself up, half stumbling after John who bypasses his scattered clothes, the kitchen, stops in the sitting room where he paces in a tight circle, fists clenching at his sides.

“John.”

John head snaps towards him and Sherlock nearly flinches back from the disgust in his face, the naked rage. Sherlock has no idea how this has happened.

“Please,” he says, and doesn't know what he's asking for.

John stares at him and Sherlock can see him trying to shut himself down, to shut Sherlock out.

“You have one minute,” John says.

The ridiculousness of this, of the two of them facing off naked in the sitting room, begins to dawn on Sherlock. He can feel his exasperation rise. How idiotic this is. What a waste of time. This isn't the way this is supposed to go and he can feel himself getting angry at John, for screwing this up, for taking them out of the pattern of their ways. _One minute?_ “Before what?” Sherlock demands. “You walk out without your clothes on?”

He is expecting yelling. He is even expecting John to attack him again.

Instead John just looks at him. “Fifty seconds, Sherlock,” he says.

And Sherlock realises, suddenly, terrifyingly, that John means it. His own anger is gone, washed away by frustration, by fear. He raises his hands, showing them open, the palms out. _Wait, just wait. Just listen to me and wait._ “Just. Trust me,” he says, because this is at least something that John understands. Trust. This at least they've always had.

But instead of calming down, instead of agreeing and nodding and sitting down and _listening_ John's just stares at him with utter disbelief, as if he can't even fathom the word coming from Sherlock at this moment. “Trust?” John spits. “When have you ever trusted me?”

Sherlock can't believe this. “I have.” Of course he has. What was this even about? What was going on?

“When?” John says. “Tell me. When.”

“With everything.” He doesn't understand this. Where this is coming from. Why this is even a question. Of course he trusts John. John, who always does what he's told. Who always does what Sherlock expects. Of course he trusts him. John who is always behind him, always following him no matter into what places he's led. How could John doubt this? Who else would Sherlock let into his life like this? Into his bed?

Except John is still staring at him and slowly shaking his head as if Sherlock has just done something disappointing and Sherlock can feel the panic starting to flood upwards, starting in his stomach and filling his chest, because John isn't joking. He's not ranting and raving about what a terrible idea this is at all. He's not waving his arms around and slamming out of the flat in a huff in order to get some air. This is John. In earnest. In absolute earnest. And Sherlock is frightened because he doesn't know what to do with this John, how to make this better.

“I'm done, Sherlock,” John says. “I'm done,” and there is something so infinitely full of regret in his voice that Sherlock nearly reaches for him again, wanting to hold onto him, hold him down, keep him here. “This is your last chance. All or nothing. This is the moment you decide. Either I'm in this all the way, or I'm gone.”

He means it. John means it. And Sherlock, staring at him, naked and shaking with too much rage, realises, startled, that he knows exactly what John is asking. He knows exactly what John wants. _Trust._ He wants to be trusted. Not to follow. Not to _not betray._ But to act. To know. He wants information. He wants choice. And Sherlock is utterly afraid of giving it to him. Of the scars and bruises it will lead to yes, but also because giving that choice to John, he is taking it away from himself. And part of him, a large part, wonders whether once John is given that choice, if it always come down on the side of Sherlock. Or will there be moments when he will look at Sherlock and see nothing but an ordinary man after all.

“I can't—I don't work that way. It's just easier—”

“Then _change!”_ John screams, actually screams, and Sherlock can feel the force of it from across the room, the sudden blossoming of fury that twists John's face and tears at his throat until there is almost nothing of John recognisable in the thing erupting in the sitting room, something strange and inhuman, a piece of nature planted here by accident and overflowing with wrath. “Do you think this is about _easy?”_ John demands. _“Do you think I am here because it is easy?_ I am not your fucking toy. I am not a fucking chess piece that you move around when you need me. I am not a piece in your _fucking strategy._ You do not make decisions for me. You do not _ever_ make decisions for me. I am your partner. I am _in this._ Or I am nothing. Your choice, Sherlock. Your _fucking choice._ So fucking. Make it.”

There is nothing but John's panting breath in the silence that comes after. John heaving and breathless with anger, with the sheer power of his outburst. But there is something painful in the way he stands there. As if crippled and aching, something inside him torn apart. And Sherlock wonders if this is something that he's done. If this thing that John is crouched around, that point in his chest he is trying to protect, is an injury inflicted by him.

John. This John that he's never seen before. That he didn't even know existed. And Sherlock can't help the thought that comes, almost by accident: _What have I done?_

So Sherlock nods. Takes a breath. He is strangely weak and suddenly standing seems like far too much effort. He goes to his chair, walking softly as if too much noise will send John haring off. The old leather plasters itself to his bare skin as he sits.

He looks at John, at this man he's never seen, and makes himself say it out loud. Makes himself acknowledge it to himself, to John, this sudden and inexplicable truth in their lives.

“You don't trust me.”

John says nothing. Sherlock wishes that he would. He waits for a denial even though he _knows_ that it won't be coming. And when it doesn't, he makes himself fill the gap, because he realises something else: that this is his first concession. This is Sherlock breaching the gap instead of waiting for John to relent. But he doesn't know what to say, what he _can_ say. So he just says, “Please sit,” and quietly, almost afraid because he doesn't know if he is allowed to ask it: “Please stay.”

John doesn't move. “I need to know. Before I sit.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Of course. I promise, John.” Of course he promises. There is nothing he wouldn't say to keep John here. There is nothing.

“What?” John presses stubbornly, and Sherlock swallows, because he knows that John knows that this needs to be real. That John is looking for something solid to grasp onto. And Sherlock doesn't even know if he's capable of it, but he wants to be. He wants to be.

“I'll try,” he says, hedging his bets, and because he knows it's closer to the truth than the lie that _yes_ would be.

But it's not enough. Still not enough, because he can see the disappointment in John's face, the slow turning away, and he reaches for John before he can stop himself, before the warning bell in his head can sound and stop him, reminding of the example of the previous three times he had done this.

“No!” It is torn from him involuntarily. He grabs John and at the very last second turns it into a gentler motion, less restraint, more plea, and by some miracle of a nonexistent God it actually works because John is turning around again, facing him, and the words tumble out of Sherlock's mouth beyond his ability to stop them. “I mean I'll try. I mean, I'm not perfect. You may have to remind me sometimes. If I forget. If I screw up. But I'll try. John, I promise. I will tell you. But it doesn't always work that way. I don't always have a plan.”

And John—beautiful John, miraculous John, _his_ John—gives a nod, something so close to relief in his face that Sherlock almost closes the last remaining space between them, but the bell, late to sound, is ringing loud and clear now and Sherlock listens to it, his breath held and nothing but his hand on John's arm to connect them in any way.

“Yeah,” John says. “Fine.”

“But you need to trust me, too,” Sherlock blurts, absolutely unintentionally, ashamed that it's true, but it doesn't matter because John—this John, this strange John—neither turns away nor immediately agrees. Instead he just looks at Sherlock, quiet and thoughtful. Then shaking Sherlock's hand off his arm, he walks around him to the worn red chair—John's chair—and sits.

“I don't know if he can,” he says.

For a moment there is silence. Then Sherlock realises that this is his now, John's admission of guilt, of truth, and it is up to Sherlock now to either refuse or accept it.

There isn't even a question of it.

Sherlock nods. “You will,” he says simply, and takes his seat across from John. His own chair in this home that is theirs. “You will,” he says again, almost to himself, knowing that it's truth, because he's Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson and this is their home. This what they are. Where they belong. And that trust, though broken, can be rebuilt. The cracks discovered. The light let in.

“Now,” Sherlock says, and he smiles and though he doesn't mean it to be, he can feel the plea in it, the question, the careful offering. “We need to talk about Mary.”

John looks at him and Sherlock can see he is unsure, waiting to be angry again but not wanting to be, and Sherlock can feel his grin widen because he realises, with a sudden joy, that he can do this. That they can do this. Because he does trust John, and John, eventually, will once again trust him. And this is the way it happens. This is how it begins.

“Listen, John,” he says. “I have a plan.”

 


End file.
